The Absence of Anything Once Loved
by TomParis7
Summary: SO MUCH ANGST! This is a post-richenbach fic (SPOLIERS). John must face his day-to-day life without Sherlock, but there is a surprising twist in the end that John may have never experienced those things, but simply imagined them. (Major Character Death) Rated K for swearing.


The Absence of Anything Once Loved

It has been three years. Three bloody years since Sherlock threw himself off that rooftop, leaving me, John Watson completely alone and drowning in my completely sorrow and pain. Anniversaries were always the hardest for me. "They are the days that bring back old scars" as Mrs. Hudson puts it. Old scars indeed. Following the shock of the nightmare I had last night, I awoke early that morning, around 5, with a pounding headache. Most likely due to the amount of alcohol I had had last night. Sitting up, I gingerly placed my feet on the cold floor of my room. Something painful was going on around the region of my stomach. I grabbed it with my hand and stumbled to the bathroom. Closing the door behind me I looked upon the pale man looking back at me in the mirror. He had dull black circles around his eyes. The eyes themselves were black and dull, as though all life had been retched from them. His arms were weak and frail looking; along with the way his shirt fell around his chest, as though it was too big to fit the very small man underneath. There was also little bruises staining up and down his arms, from the amount of times IV's had been poked through them.

As I looked at the man in the reflection, I felt cold and dull. I was slowly fading into nothing, without anyway of reverting back to the man I once was. Sherlock had taken that away from me when he died. Stupid bloody Sherlock. Had he known what would come of me before he jumped, would he have followed through? Stupid bloody Sherlock, who pulled his only friend from life when he had jumped. I shook myself, for now I knew why I felt so horrible today, well more horrible then usual I should say. It was the three-year anniversary. Today, three years ago, two men had lost their lives. Three years ago, I was unceremoniously ripped from my daily life to this sorry excuse for one I was living now.

Three years… was that even possible. That Sherlock had been dead for three years? It hardly seemed true, but I knew it was. For how could I forget the date? January 15th, 2012. It was seared into my mind, never to forget. It was the anniversary, so what shall it be today? I asked myself. Shall it be tea or whisky? Pills or crap telly? I would start by seeing his grave… yes that is good.

Finally, with an idea in mind, I splashed water onto my face and exited the bathroom. I had hardly gone three or four steps when BAMB, I was on the floor. _Bloody leg. Of course it had chosen this day to act up, it always did._ Hissing in pain, I managed to heave myself up with help from the doorknob, and got shakily to my feet. I stumbled back into my room and found my cane, standing innocently against the nearest wall. I squinted at it and hastily grabbed it. Now supported, I headed downstairs, one slow step at a time. I made it to the living room after some time and headed into the kitchen. Then I didn't feel like having tea anymore, I strolled back to the living room, glancing at objects as I went.

_Sherlock's chair_

_His violin._

_The deerstalker._

_The scarf_

_The scull_

_The smiley face on the wall, now cracked and faded_

_The pills on the side table_

_The laptop_

_The cold cups of tea_

_The gun…_

I sat down in my armchair and gazed around the room… not really seeing it. Instead, there were images floating around in my head. A man lying broken and bloody on the street. The tears in my eyes. The endless pain in my heart as they hauled my best friend away from me. They were images that I tried to shove away but they just kept coming, like tidal waves on the shore. His body was flying through the air. His sad and broken voice said words to me that shook me to my deepest of foundations,

_Goodbye John._

Over and over he said it in my head, till I couldn't stand it anymore. I got up, my leg seizing at the moment, but I didn't care. I headed to the table and popped open the pill bottle. I shook out two pills and then filled a glass of water, my hands now trembling so violently, water kept slopping onto the counter. I drank the water along with the pills and set them back down on the counter, studying my breaths. I bitterly hated those pills, but they numbed the pain… at least for a while. So, my throat dry and my stomach growling, I headed back to my chair and grabbed my laptop along the way. Sitting down, now a little less on edge, I clicked it open. It chimed it welcome and showed me its glowing home screen. I doubled clicked the Internet button and waited as it loaded. Then I quietly typed in my blog's address. It flickered then showed me the home page. I stared at it blankly, thinking about what I should write, as I did everyday. But after 10 minutes of staring, I simply powered down my laptop and set it on the side once more.

My therapist had told me to write, but what? What was there to write now that I had no handsome, mad detective to run around with? What else was there without my best, and only, friend? Nothing. Therefore, I had nothing to write about. So I never did.

On days like these, I took to staring at the opposite wall, not really thinking at all, because thinking was the worst thing a man with depression could do. Thinking brought me nothing but more pain and allowed the darkness in the pit of my stomach to grow and take over my body. Then God knows what I would do then. So no. On days like these, January 15th in particular, I tried not to think at all.

I got a call from Lestrade around 7:30, but it let it ring, not moving from my solitary position sitting in my chair. It was only when someone knocked sharply on the door was it that I moved at all.

"Come in." I said.

"Hello John dear." Mrs. Hudson poked her head in, looking as pale and worried as usual. Felling bad, I decided to act happy today, at least so she didn't have to worry so much.

"Hi Mrs. Hudson. Please, sit down." I said politely, getting up to hug her. She pulled me back to arms length and scanned me up and down. She obviously didn't approve of my skinny, non-sleep state, but she didn't comment.

"Can I make you some tea John?"

"That would be great thanks." I said. I didn't want tea, but figured it would make her happy to seem helpful. So I took a seat again and listened to her bustle around the kitchen and putting the pot on the stove.

"So John dear. How are you?" Her voice wafted in from the kitchen. I smiled bitterly to myself. What a curious question… how was I?

Presuming she didn't want to hear my real answer, I said, "I'm doing alright. And you?"

Her head appeared around the corner and she gave me a quizzical look. "I don't think your doing alright John. How could you be? Saying as today is…" She broke off, unable to finish her sentence. I averted my eyes and looked back down at my hand, which was trembling again. Obviously embarrassed, she hurried back into the kitchen. A few moments later she came out with two steaming cups of tea and some toast.

She handed me the tea and the plate of toast and sat down in Sherlock's chair. I closed my eyes but didn't comment.

"You should eat John, you're looking rather peaky." Mrs. Hudson commented quietly.

"I'm fine thanks." I said, not touching the toast. It had a bland taste to it anyways. I stared out the window as the Landlady sipped her tea. I didn't drink mine, but simply hugged it and felt the warmth somewhat of a comfort, like a hot fire on a snowy day. We sat in silence for who knows how long. I was staring off into nothing, but kept feeling Mrs. Hudson glance nervously toward be before averting her eyes again. A shrill ringing of my phone broke the silence. I didn't make the slightest of moves to go and get it so tentatively, Mrs. Hudson looked to me then said,

"Shall I- shall I get that dear?"

I didn't reply. So Mrs. Hudson got up and picked up the phone. Without asking, she answered it.

"Hello?"

There was silence while the person on the other end talked. I didn't care much to who it was. Probably Lestrade or some bloke from the Yard, seeing 'how I was hold up.' They always called, thinking that they could fix everything for me, 'saying how life goes on' and 'Sherlock wouldn't have wanted me to live like this' and other rubbish. How in the world did they know what Sherlock would have wanted? Half of them never spoke to him when he was alive, and all of a sudden, they knew what he would have wanted. The bastards. I scoffed at the idea but was startled to find Mrs. Hudson in front of me, holding out the phone to me.

"Hum?" I asked.

"It's your sister, dear. She wants to talk to you."

Sighing, I took the phone from her and said dully, "Hello."

"John?" Came Harry's voice.

"Yeah." I replied.

"How are you?"

"Fine."

"Really?"

"Yes."

"You don't sound fine."

"I don't?"

"No John, you don't. So will you be truthful for me for two seconds?"

"I'm fine."

"I know what day it is."

"That's good."

"John" She growled.

"What?"

"Will you quit being a prick and talk to me?"

"What do you want me to say?"

"That you're healing, or you're going to get help or I don't know. That your not doing fine and your sad. Something other then this complete rubbish your giving me."

"But I'm fine Harry, really."

"How could you be?"

I thought about that question for a moment, and closed my eyes. _Sherlock was falling. He hit the pavement. _I opened my eyes again and shuttered,

"I want a drink." I said simply.

"John it's 9am."

"Well it's 3pm somewhere." I said, chuckling dryly.

"That isn't funny."

"What do you want Harry?"

"I want you to be truthful."

"Why?"

"Because THIS ISN'T HEALTHY JOHN! You're killing yourself over this man. It's been three years John! For Christ sake, you need to start moving on with your life! I know he was your friend, but this isn't normal. You should be getting better, not worse!"

"He was more then just a friend." I said dully. I think the anti-depressants I had taken earlier were kicking in because I couldn't really feel Harry's words, they simply didn't matter.

"So?"

"So, John. I want you to be happy! He was one man! You can't let him ruin your entire life. What does it matter that he died? That shouldn't affect you John. Your still living! You still have the chance to live and have a good life."

This struck a chord. "You call this still living, Harry? Because I call it bullshit. If this is living then I don't want to. And of course it mattered that he died. And of course it affects me Harry. Did it ever occur to you that Sherlock was important to me? Hum? That I cared about him more then anything in this entire world? No. You thought he was just some crazy friend of mine whom I followed around, solving bloody cases with. But not quite, because I loved him. I did." I didn't know when I had gotten to my feet, but I was now standing, shaking from head to toe in pent up anger,  
"And he took that away from me when he…. When he…" I couldn't get the words out anymore. Breathing heavily I growled to her, "So don't talk to me about his bloody death not affecting me."

And with that I closed the phone with a snap, ending the call. Still breathing deeply, I groaned and sat back down, my leg cramping worse then ever. It was a few minutes before I realized that Mrs. Hudson had retreated back into the kitchen and I heard her voice as though she was talking to someone just out of sight.

"Well Inspector, what can I say? He lost his best friend. The two of them together were like peas in a pod, inseparable. For John to just get over something like that…" There was silence then she added, "Yes, I-I'll tell him. And get yourself down here some time today, I don't think I can stand to see him wasting away like this."

I had had enough. Slowly and quietly, I got out of the chair, wincing slightly and snatched up my cane. I scribbled a note to her and without a word to the landlady; I marched out of the flat and down the stairs, taking one at a time. I reached the front door and pulled it open. It was a hot day, for January and the sun accosted my eyes as I closed the door behind me with a snap. Limping down the street, I walked on, without much of an idea as to where I would go, but I didn't quite care anymore. My feet took me along the street, passing an assortment of people on daily business, unbenoitenced to them that this was the worst day of my life. Well, second worst.

I walked on. The hot sun scolding the back of my neck and the heat was radiating off the pavement like a hot stove. Deciding to get someplace cool I walked to a small pub. A cool blast of air greeted my face and I sighed, soaking it in. So now to the bar. I walked along the rows of chairs till I reached the front. Sliding onto a stool I signaled to the bar tender. He came over a flashed me a smile,

"What will it be then mate?"

I contemplated it then said, "Just a small pint then."

He nodded and strode off to fill the order. Sighing, I lapsed into my own head, which I mentioned before, was dangerous. Before long, my head was spinning with thoughts and memories of him. The first time we met. The searing of my lungs as I ran with him, adrenaline and heat pushing us forward. His eyes. His smile. The soft violin tune wafting through the house, soothing to my flayed nerves. The complete rush of a case. The breath. The heat. The sideways glances. The jolting feeling in my stomach when I saw him… on the roof. The tears stinging my eyes and his voice cracked. His words. His fall. His body smacking onto the pavement. The pain of it all. The loss. The heartbreak. The months of nothingness. The darkness. The cold. The absence of anything once loved. The nightmares. The hospitals. The phone calls. The death.

Before I knew what I was doing I was crying like I hadn't in months, hell years. I was gasping for air, tears flowing down my face, and splashing onto the bar. My hands shook so I couldn't hold my drink. I felt lost. Empty. Like nothing in the world mattered but the pain. It was at that moment that I realized I was alone. Completely and irrevocably alone. It seemed to tear at me in ways that I couldn't even understand… it ripped my heart into pieces. The loneliness was like a cavernous pit that I had just leaped into, never to return from. Any hope of being saved was lost in that moment, for what was a man without company, without someone to love and be loved in return?

I ordered another drink. Larger this time. I wanted to mask the pain for a while. So I drank. And I drank. I lost count of the number of drinks I ordered. After feeling sufficiently drunk and I left the bar, after paying, and cried all of the way down the street. I turned into an alley and sunk down on the cold, hard pavement. So this was it then? What my life has come to? Loneiless and war. I was constantly fighting the battle and it was time to put down the guns and come home. I dried my tears and got my breathing under control. It took a while but I finally heaved myself to my feet and exited the alley. Hailing a cab took some time but I finally got one and a gruff voice came from the front.

"Where to?"

I rattled off the address from memory and sat back as he drove on down the street. We rumbled up to the entrance with black gates and a sign that read: Monument Cemenetary.

"Cheers." I said to him and handed him the cash. I began limping up past the gates, my feet confidently striding to a place that I had been so often. I arrived at the small patch of grass that held the black stone head, and Sherlock Holmes was written in plain black letters across the front. I liked that; there was no description like "Loving sociopath" or anything on it. It was straightforward and to the point, much like Sherlock's personality. I collected my breath and slid down on the grave. Leaning against the cold headstone, I imagined he was there with me, sitting just beyond sight, perhaps leaning on the other side of his grave.

_ "You're here again John." Sherlock said._

_ "So I am." I muttered._

_ "Why?"_

_ "Because I miss you." I said simply._

_I imagined him wrapping his coat tighter around himself and sniffing indignantly._

_ "Me too…" He said softly._

_ "Then why don't you just come back to me?" I questioned._

_ "It's… complicated for you to understand John… I don't think your smaller brain would be able to process it."_

_I chuckled, "Thanks."_

_He laughed too, "Of course." _

_We would sit there, just simply enjoying each other's company. For hours on end. Sherlock shifted a bit on his side and coughed slightly, _

_ "What have you been doing John? While I've been gone?"_

_ "What does it matter what I've been doing?"_

_ "I want to know about your life." Sherlock replied_

_I chewed my tongue thinking about my response, "Well. It hasn't been that eventful. Whisky has been my best mate over the years, and Mrs. Hudson is working hard to keep me all together, but honestly I think she's failing. I don't feel that put together at all. And Lestrade comes around some times, and takes me out for a pint. We don't talk about you that much, but other petty things…. And I come around to the yard, sometimes to see everyone. Except Donovan and Anderson, because their pricks."_

_Sherlock chucked._

_ "And then I would go home. But Holidays were the worst. Christmas and your birthday… I think I lost count of the times I was at the hospital… They had to up my therapy session." I said dryly._

_ "What?" Sherlock his tone hinting surprise. "How often?"_

_ "I don't bloody well know. I kind of lost count." I exclaimed, "But that all doesn't matter… because it's just you and me and…"_

_ "And…" Sherlock prompted._

_ "And your grave."_

_ "Oh it's just a slap of concrete, John. It doesn't mean anything."_

_ "Well it's got your name on it." I countered._

_ "It's all so dull." Sherlock said suddenly._

_ "What is?"_

_ "This." He said, gesturing around to the scenery, "This graveyard, your life, and my life. It used to be fun John. You and I, out to conquer the world."_

_ "Then why did you do it?" I asked, a hint of desperation in my voice._

_ "For reasons beyond your understanding John."_

_ "Was it because of me?" I asked quietly, dreading the answer._

_ "What? No John no, never. It was never because of you. You were the only person keeping me together." _

_ "Then _why?" _I asked incuriously._

_ "Please John. Isn't this enough. You and me, here together?"_

_I sighed and laid my hand down in the cold dirt, palm up. "Yeah. It is." I said, and he Sherlock's hand reached around the grave and grabbed mine. He squeezed it tight and I closed my eyes and breathed in his sent. But there was a weird smell to go along with it. A smell of bleach and anesthetics filled my nostrils. How strange, I thought. But I could still feel Sherlock's hands tight in my grasp, so I didn't complain much. I just sat there with him, feeling him stroking my hand gently and he said softly to me,_

_ "Please. Wake up John. For me." _

My eyes shot open. The darkness was gathering around the graveyard, and I had slid down to the ground next to His grave. I shook myself and looked at my hand, but there was no long fingers enlaced in mine, only empty air. The dream had seemed so real, but I suppose that's what hallucinations do to a man who hasn't slept or eaten properly in a while. I didn't want to get up, or leaving that amazing dream behind, but the cold was starting to bite at my hands and the tip of my nose. So glancing at my watch; 7:30pm. I struggled to my feet, using Sherlock's grave as a support. Stumbling slightly, I gripped my cane and turned to the grave.

"A day doesn't go by that I don't think about you." I said softly to the grave, and felt my eyes burning, so quickly I turned from the grave and began walking home. It was getting cold, and I shoved my hand in my pocket, looking for warmth. I managed to get a cab back to the flat, and I had reached the flat. Getting out and paying, I stumbled to the door. I fumbled for the keys when I saw a dark shadow appear close by. I froze and activated my army senses. Slowly, I reached for my back pocket where I kept my gun.

"Who's there?"

They didn't respond but advanced forward. I thought I knew something in the way this person walked, but I couldn't quite place it. Then the man spoke, in a voice that startled me backwards.

"John?"

But no. It wasn't possible. The man was thrown into the light and I gasped. Standing before me was Sherlock Holmes.

Before I could think I had my gun on him and I was yelling, my hands shaking, "WHO THE HELL ARE YOU?"

"It's me John. I'm alive." Sherlock said to me. I laughed at this. Sherlock looked quite startled by my reaction, but didn't speak again.

"Real funny. Yeah. That's great. Thanks, but I'd rather you leave me alone." I said, shaking from head to toe in fear and misery.

"John?"

"Why the hell are you still here? It's not funny."

"I am not intending to be funny." Sherlock said.

I paused. This man did look very much like the man I once knew, years ago. This man looked like Sherlock. But how in the world was that possible?

"I must still be dreaming… or worse. Am I dead?"

"No John, I'm alive."

"Dreaming then…" I agreed, nodding to myself. Alright then, time to wake up because I didn't like this dream. It was too realistic for my taste.

"Your are not dreaming John. You are not hallucinating… this is real."

I scoffed, "yeah because my best friends just happen to come back to life on a daily basis."

"John."

"No."

"Please, you have to believe me."

"No."

"Oh for goodness sake." Sherlock growled and he punched me in the face. It wasn't a hard it but it unbalanced me slightly. And it hurt. I grabbed my face and then looked back at the man. He was still there, long coat and all. I blinked a few times but he didn't disappear.

"Sherlock…?" I gasped, and felt my knees buckle beneath me. I felt warm arms wrap around me and pull me back to my feet.

"Lets get out of the cold and I'll explain everything."

I was numb. I let this strange vision of Sherlock carry me into the house and up the stairs to the flat. He set me back on my feet, clicked on the lights, and I stumbled and almost fell again, but he caught me. How many drinks had I had?

"Good, Mrs. Hudson isn't here then. Here. Sit." Sherlock walked me to my armchair and he sat next do me.

"John?" He was looking at me with concern.

"Yeah."

"Are you alright?"

"Define alright."

Sherlock sighed. "It's really me John."

"How can I know that? And you know how stupid that sounds? You… he was dead. I checked… I checked his pulse and everything… there's no way…"

Sherlock simply looked at me.

"What?" I asked, when he didn't respond, I got angry. "What do you want from me? I am just trying to get by… I really don't need this right now. Because I think I'm going mad and god knows how many drink's I've had today… they'll probably send me back to the hospital for this."

"John. Please. Calm down."

Why was he telling me this, I was perfectly calm!

"Then if I'm not drunk who are you?"

"I told you, I'm Sherlock. I'm alive. I had to fake my death to protect you."

I stopped short, what if it was true… what if this was really Sherlock in front of me? But it was impossible. I leaned forward and gently touched his arm, half afraid that he would fade when touched. My arm touched his and he looked down at my hand and gently touched mine.

"It's me John. And I am so sorry."

It all began to click in my brain. It was Sherlock, sitting in front of me, talking to me…. Which meant… he had pretended to be dead for three years… while I slowly rotted away…

"YOU BLOODY IDIOT!" I yelled, all of my strength came back to me and as I stood up, so did he. I punched him as hard as I could in the face; he recoiled and rubbed his cheek but didn't say a word.

"YOU LEFT ME. YOU LEFT ME HERE FOR THREE BLOODY YEARS! HOW COULD YOU DO THIS TO ME… HOW COULD… I…." I couldn't come up with words strong enough to explain all of the emotions exploding inside me simultaneously.

"John, listen please I-"

WAM. I hit him again. My hand was getting numb from where it grazed his jutted out cheekbone. I rubbed it and then starting crying. I collapsed back into my chair and put my head in my hands. Sherlock sat down again and rubbed his jaw, but again, didn't say a word.

"Why?" I asked weakly.

"I had to."

"Had to?"

"You would have died if I didn't." Sherlock implored.

"What?" I asked, looking up. My face was stained with tears but I didn't care.

"Morarity was going to kill you if I didn't… so I had to."

I was blown back by his words, "You were trying to…" But another thought occurred to me.

"Then why did you wait three bleeding years to show yourself?"

"Because there were hundreds in his web John. Hundreds. And they were all gunning for you, so I had to kill them before I could come back to you, or risk putting you in danger."

I remained silent, figuring my brain had decided to shut down at all of this news. I sat in my chair, completely numb. We stayed quiet and then I began to look at him. It was like looking at an old worn out photograph of someone you barely remember.

Sherlock's coat was tattered and hole-ridden in more then one place. His cheekbones were more defined then ever, and red, from where I had punched him. He was also skinny, the unhealthy kind of skinny. I figured this is how I looked to him. There were also dark, and heavy circles around his eyes, from lack of sleep. I also saw a great deal of cuts and burses around his face and neck and even down his arms. I got up so abruptly that he jumped.

"W-where are you going?" He asked.

I didn't respond but hobbled over to the counter where I pulled out a first aid kit. I limped back to the chair and said,

"Get over here." I gestured with my head for him to pull his chair closer and he complied. I pulled out a lone stethoscope and put it to my ears. Sherlock's protests of 'John please, I'm fine' were slightly muffled as I pushed aside his shirt to find his heart rate. It was considerably faster then one's should be. Not a good sign. Then I rapped my fingers around his cold wrist, and I was suddenly accosted my memories and I closed my eyes sharply. Sherlock must have noticed for he pulled his arm away and said softly, "I'm fine John. Stop fussing."

Shaking myself I came back to my senses, "No Sherlock your not. You look terrible."

"I don't look much better then you." Sherlock replied coolly.

I shook my head "I'm fine. Now let me see that cut." I pulled out some disinfectant and some gauze. I dabbed it onto his cuts and began patching him up. Sherlock didn't budge, which was strange to me, saying, as he would usually hit my hand away and scoff. I suppose he was trying to let me be in charge for what he had put me through.

"And don't think you're just off the hook, Sherlock. Because we are very far from ok right now."

"I know we are John." Sherlock replied, averting his eyes.

"Now take off your coat." I ordered him.

"Why?" He asked suddenly.

"Because I want to see what other injuries you're hiding under there." I said.

He sighed but complied, shrugging of his coat and throwing it on the couch. I scanned his shirt up and down, which too was dirty and torn in different places. I did however find large cuts on his arm and rope burns around his wrists. I shook my head grimly and set to the task of fixing him up.

"Alright. You should be good." I said.

Sherlock chuckled.

"What's so funny?"

"A curious choice of words John…. Good. How will I ever be good knowing what I put you though?"

I averted my eyes and instead decided to stare at a black spot on the carpet.

"John, look. I wouldn't have ever done it if it weren't completely necessary… It's just that I-"

"Sherlock stop." I ordered, placing a hand in his, "It's alright. Just. Well it's not alright but it will be."

Sherlock closed his eyes and inhaled a huge breath. "But John you need to understand that I care about you and I feel terrible about it all and-"

"Please." I implored shaking my head and closing my eyes. "Lets just be happy that you're here and we can be together again. Alright?"

"Alright." Sherlock agreed.

We moved to the couch and sat together for quite some time, just listing to each other's breathing. Eventually, had my head on Sherlock's shoulder, and his hand was in mine. I took in the wonderful smell of Sherlock. It was like I was waking up from a long time sleeping, and finally seeing the light of day. For Sherlock was back with me, and maybe we weren't in the perfect of shape at the moment, but we were together again like I never thought we could. I felt him press a gentle kiss to the top of my head and a tear raced down my cheek.

"Thank you Sherlock." I said quietly.

"For what John? I have done nothing that you should be thanking me for."

"Just…. Thank you, for being you…"

I felt the corners of Sherlock's mouth turn up in a smile and I smiled too and looked up at him. He kissed me gently on the lips, his eyes filled with emotions I had never seen there before.

"Those three years, John… they were… they were unspeakably horrible. I found that, I couldn't life without you John, and I don't intend to. I will never leave you again John Watson."

I smiled and another tear leaked out of the corner of my eye. "You better not." I growled and kissed him again. Then we lay there, my arms encircling his, and my head rested in the crook of his neck. We slowly drifted off to sleep, filled with the sheer warmth and comfort of each other.

….

"John… please… I… I don't think I can keep on going without you. Three years were bad enough, but John…" Sherlock Holmes sat in a stiff backed chair next to a hospital bed. A single man was lying unmoving on the bed. Sherlock's eyes were cloudy and distant as he looked into the face of John Watson. He stared at him for a while, trying to soak in every aspect of this wonderful man in front of him. His hair that fell to one side, brown and sandy. His lips that so nicely curved around his mouth, always turned up in a steely smile. His hands, which shook when feeling weak, but lay strong and still when under pressure. His eyes that always shone a kind of giddy hope into the detective that made him believe anything was possible. Every aspect of John Watson was perfect. Everything. And for him to simply be lying there, comatose was unacceptable. Sherlock started when he heard a sharp knock on the door. A man in blue scrubs and a lab coat poked his head in.

"Hello,"

"Doctor." Sherlock said curtly, standing up and facing away from John's bed. "Do you have news?"

He looked grim. Every aspect of the way he was standing told Sherlock what he had feared. He already knew the answer before the doctor said it.

"I do. I am so sorry to be the one to tell you this, sir. But John here has been in a coma for almost 6 months. The pills he pumped into his system took too much of a tool on his already weakened body. That, combined with the lack of sleep and food, he lapsed into this state."

"Yes Doctor I know. I was the one_ who found him like that." _ Sherlock spat, feeling the self-hatred coursing through his body like venom.

"And I am very sorry about that Mr. Holmes. It's just that, at this point, I don't think there is anyway John is coming back. The only thing keeping him breathing is the life support machine. But his brain function is not active. I am sorry, but we are going to have to let him go."

Sherlock blinked a few times, as though trying to clear those words from his head. Then, as calmly and coolly as possible, Sherlock nodded.

"So I want you to take all the time you need and come and get me when you're ready. Again, I am sorry for you loss."

Sherlock was biting back tears. His throat felt tight and stiff and he seemed unable to breath properly. The doctor left and Sherlock turned immediately back to John's bed. He felt a single tear roll down his cheek as he brushed stray hair out of his eyes.

"I am so sorry John" Sherlock chocked, more tears following the first. "I am so sorry that you had to meet me. That you suffered on my behalf. That you are…" Sherlock took a breath and tried again, "That you are going to die because of… because of the foolish mistakes I made." Sherlock sank back into his chair and squeezed John's hand tightly, "Because you are the most incredible person I have ever met. You brought me hope when I though all was lost. You _saved me _John Watson. You pulled me back to my feet and made me whole again. And I pushed you away. But no matter what, you were there for me. And for this, I am so grateful. But I am also sorry. I feel as though I'm drowning, John. I am sinking further into nothingness with nothing to hold on to. Without you, John, I am a mere shell of a man. I uncompleted half without it's whole. You complete me John. You make me understand why people can be so stupid. You are patient with me when I am being difficult. And John, you understand me. More then anyone ever has, including Mycroft."

Sherlock smoothed the creases on John's gown and said, "I am completely in love with you John Watson. And I want you to know that. I _need_ you to know that. I never got to say those things to you. That I wanted to spend the rest of my life with you, or that I wanted to marry you someday. Those were all plans John, all things that I was going to do, and we were _so close John."_ Sherlock whispered, "If you would have waited just another day for me John, I would have been back. Three years and a day. That's all I needed. And I could have saved you. But you took those pills and I couldn't stop you. I couldn't save you. I am sorry to be the one that has killed you John Watson."

Sherlock stopped short and stood up. He planted a kiss on John's cold forehead and then gently touched his shoulder. He then pressed the call button and minutes later the doctor came in with a few nurses.

"Are you ready?" He asked the detective.

Sherlock nodded, unable to speak. The nurses bustled around as Sherlock scribbled the consent form and sat down with John again.

"You were always there for me John. So I know you're scared, but I'll be here the whole time. Don't you worry, I've got you." Sherlock grasped his hand and kissed it.

The nurses unhooked the life support and turned off the whirling machines. Sherlock watched in a numb state of shock as the little life that was left slowly drained from John's body.

"I'm sorry."


End file.
